


Meet Shoot

by Grenegome



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: AU: Early Meeting, Kinkmeme, M/M, Multi, Punk!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grenegome/pseuds/Grenegome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry meets Marcone before his rise to power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meet Shoot

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a Dresden Files Kink Meme prompt requesting Harry and John meeting prior to the series, preferably with Harry not realising who John is until well into Gentleman Johnny territory. I have futzed with their relative ages a bit for my own amusement and to better fit the prompt.
> 
> Warnings for an instance of homophobic hate speech, Harry throwing around terms like mad and crazy, non-graphic violence.

I first met Marcone in less than ideal circumstances, working a job for Nick that had taken a sudden turn into bump in the night territory. It wasn’t the first time I’d gone searching for a missing child and found them in supernaturally threatening circumstances, but it was the first time I got shot at for chasing a bogeyman out of town.

The bullet missed me by a mile, and I reacted with the kind of bad words you really aren’t supposed to use around nine year old girls, especially the kind that are scared half out of their minds, cruel bogey-claw scratches still marking their arms. The kid was scared but smart; she ignored me to duck down beside a parked car, out of the line of fire. Leaving me to face off with some wide eyed, overweight, balding lump of a mobster.

“What-- what the fuck-- ” the guy stuttered, gun shaking in his grip. Great. It looked like I was about to get shot by accident.

“Bogeyman,” I said calmly. “All gone now, so why don’t we both go our separate ways?” I could shield myself, probably, but I’d never tested my shield bracelet against anything as fast as bullets. And I really didn’t wants ricochets bouncing around near my damsel in distress.

“Fucking-- claws and-- and teeth!” Yeah, gun-guy wasn’t taking this well. At all. He’d seen me doing magic, so I wasn’t a calming presence in his current frame of mind. “Fucking freak, what the _fucking_ fuck.” He straightened his arm, taking a steadier aim at me, and then the cavalry came.

It came on a motorbike, roaring way too fast down the dark and empty streets, and screeched to a halt in front of me, the driver in a pair of fitted blue jeans and a leather jacket that didn’t quite disguise the strength of his shoulders. He didn’t have a helmet, not that it’d save him from Stuttering Gun Man anyway. But the biker didn’t seem intimidated. As far as I could tell, from a limited view of the back of his head, he was just staring the guy down, posture proclaiming: _I am not impressed_.

“You-- you’re Marcone, ain’t you? One of Mike’s guys,” Gun-guy said.

“And you’re Samuel Delano, the idiot that’s about to start shooting up a Chicago street for no damn reason.” Yeah. Not impressed. Not frightened. Just full of measured disdain, the kind you didn’t usually find in a street punk.

“I got reason!” Delano yelled, voice screechy with clinging fear. He pointed with his free hand, jabbing a finger in my direction. “He ain’t natural, he ain’t-- ”

“What about the girl behind the car? She unnatural too?”

Huh. Marcone had sharp eyes, to spot a frightened child from a speeding bike.

“She-- there was a monster, it was _holding_ her-- ”

“Really. This monster around now?”

“I-- no-- this, this _freak_ nearly set it on fire. It ran.”

Marcone didn’t bother looking at me, attention steady on the guy with the gun. “Right. Well, how about you do the same thing, Sammy? Scram.”

Delano blinked, burbled a bit, and then ran, fearful whimpers trailing behind him.

“Goddamn jackass, no-one in this city got a brain?” my knight in stone washed denim grumbled. He looked over his shoulder and flashed me a smile, vibrant green eyes finally drinking me in and I nearly got caught up in them, before jerking my gaze away. Stupid. I didn’t usually trip up like that. “What about you? Taking a stroll around here at night ain’t smart. Who’s the kid?”

That was... more questions than I was expecting, and my brief burst of gratitude ran afoul of Marcone’s presumptuous tone, like he could have me bearing my soul for the price of a smile and a bit of anti-mobster intimidation.

“She’s none of your business,” I told him, and went to check on my charge. She was still making friends with the car, pressing herself away from me. I took a step back instinctively; I’m tall, really, freakishly tall, and sometimes that startles kids. “Hey, Suzy, right? My name’s Harry. I work for a place called Ragged Angel? We help find kids that get lost.” I kept my voice low, soothing, not really caring what I was saying. Frightened children react to tone as much as words. “Your mom Lucy asked us to look for you. She’s been missing you. So’s Bertie. That’s your bear, right?” I squatted down, trying to get closer to her eye level. “And your rabbit.” I racked my memory. “Squiggens?”

“Scritchens,” Suzy whispered.

“Oops, you’ll have to tell him I’m sorry. We only met briefly. That’s how I found you.”

“Scritchens told you?” she asked, frowning.

“Nope. But you got a hair caught in his hutch. I used that. And magic.” I wiggled my fingers dramatically. Suzy stopped trying to mould herself into the car.

“You used magic on the monster,” she said. “You stopped him hurting me. He pinched me and scratched me and no-one ever believed me. I told them he’d take me away if they didn’t check in closet and _they said I was lying_!” She’d started yelling and I felt a weird surge of pride. She could use anger, better than fear.

“He can’t hurt you anymore Suzy, I promise. If you let me take you back home, I’ll fill your closet so full of magic not a bogeyman in the world will be able to get within five miles of it. Cross my heart.” I did so, solemnly, and Suzy stood up.

“Ok,” she said, seriously, and grabbed my hand. Mission accomplished.

I stood, and turned, and the green eyed guy was still there, straddling his bike and watching me with intent curiosity.

“Harry Dresden... ” he mused. “You know, a man that does ‘magic’ and fights monsters and saves little girls was more than I was expecting tonight.”

“Whatever.” I said, and then because he’d maybe saved my ass and I should probably try and set a good example to the traumatised minor whose hand I was holding, I managed a grudging, “Thanks.” I got a razor sharp smile for my troubles.

“You’re welcome. So, did I bruise your ego, Harry?”

“It’s Dresden.” I said, starting to walk away.

Marcone climbed off the bike and wheeled it over to the curb, leaning it on the kickstand and plucking out the keys before trotting after us. “Sure,” he said easily, still curious and not in the least dissuaded by my cold shoulder. He looked a couple of years older than me, maybe 22, 23; he had to have better things to do than follow me around the rough parts of town on a Friday night.

“Well, Marcone, I suggest you get back to your bike before one of the law abiding residents of this fair neighborhood absconds with it.”

“Absconds? Who the he- the heck talks like that?”

“Tired wizards,” I said. “Why are you stalking us?”

“Rough neighborhood,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Right. And you’re, what? The friendly neighborhood vigilante? You fight crime in your spare time?”

He burst out laughing. “No. That’s... actually, you couldn’t be any wronger, Dresden.”

I jerked to a halt, sudden realisation of what that meant, in connection with Gun Man’s earlier recognition of him. I pulled Suzy behind me and faced off with Marcone. “Leave. Now. Or I make you.”

He tilted his head, piercing gaze running up and down my lanky figure. “I think I’d like to see you try, Dresden,” he said, with a wild smile, and it wasn’t macho aggression, it was an honest invitation, a burning desire to find out what I could really do. I eyed him coldly.

“Well, you’re out of luck. She’s had to deal with enough evil tonight, I’m not piling criminal scum on top of that. Leave, or I march us straight to the nearest payphone and call the cops.”

“Uh huh. And tell them what? A very helpful young man on a motorbike just scared off a wiseguy for you?”

A wiseguy. So not any old criminal scum. Outfit criminal scum. Joy.

“What are you playing at?” I asked.

“Like I said, rough neighborhood. There’s... business going down tonight; you run into the wrong people, they might get jumpy. Accidents happen, nights like this.” Marcone shrugged.

“And you, what? Have a moral objection to _accidents_? But not business in general.”

“I guess. Just the way I am.”

Marcone insisted on walking us back to civilisation, taking a couple of detours after arguing down my objections. Apparently he was keeping us out of harm’s way. Whatever.

Eventually we reached a busier main road, and he drew to a halt. “Safe and sound, Harry. I’ll see you around.”

“Don’t hold your breath!” I yelled, as he slipped away into the darkness.

 

The second time I met Marcone, I saved his ass.

I don’t like being in someone's debt, call it a side effect of growing up with a Faerie Godmother. So my reaction to strolling around a corner and discovering Marcone having the shit kicked out of him by four hulking guys wasn’t exactly gleeful, but there was a teensy little bit of satisfaction in the back of my mind about getting to settle the score.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Assholes!” They stopped kicking for a moment. Instead of the normal wheezing sounds of pain I expected from Marcone, he snarled like a wounded animal, something feral, ready to bite. Marcone had left his mark already; the four kicking thugs had three friends, and they were out cold, sprawled at uncomfortable angles on the asphalt. Wow. Go team Marcone.

He didn’t stay down for long. As soon as Tallest Asshole turned to look at me, Marcone was moving, landing a savage kick to the guy’s knee and rolling away from his attackers. Marcone rose with blood in his smile, trickling from his split lip. “Right then. Gentlemen, there might have been a misunderstanding here.”

“Fuck you, faggot,” Tall And Apparently Homophobic Asshole growled, clutching at his knee.

“Not even if you said please,” Marcone threw back at him, smile not flickering for a moment. “Now, I can walk, and we can forget this. But if you try and stop me, I’m gonna quit pulling my punches.”

That’s when one of them pulled a gun, and I got to test my shield bracelet.

 

We finished the night in a bar, because Marcone had just seen magic, real magic, for the first time, and he had some questions. I’d just seen a bullet bounce off my Kevlar of wishful thinking, right in front of my face, and that called for beer.

“It’s something you’re born with? Not something you can learn?” Marcone, the curious bastard, couldn’t care less for his own drink, corralling me into a corner table and firing off questions.

Fortunately for him, I don’t mind a receptive audience.“Yeah, it’s innate. You can read as many books as you like, talk to all the wizards in the world, you won’t end up with magic. Well, except the normal stuff. You can raise a circle of will, generate a threshold-- ”

“A what?” Marcone’s attention went to my head faster than the beer. Unlike the local law enforcement, and various prospective clients of Nick’s, he didn’t think I was a nutjob. Marcone was taking me seriously, and, well, it was kind of flattering. He was all relaxed macho aggression, but he thought _I_ was cool.

Friday nights became beer-with-Marcone nights.

It became a bit of a ritual for me, looking forward to the weekend and sitting in a bar full of non magic people doing non magic things like playing pool and drinking too much beer and bumping into one another and trading uncalled for insults. You know. Normal people stuff. I liked it, and Marcone seemed to like it because he was always there, full of questions about the new graze on my knuckles or the smouldering building down by the lake.

But one night, a couple of years down the line, Marcone didn’t show. A red headed linebacker hulked up alongside our usual table instead. “You Dresden?” he rumbled.

“Who wants to know?” I asked, sliding my chair back from the table a little. Some of Marcone’s ‘friends’ weren’t exactly friendly, and things had been getting worse recently. I’d tried to suggest, gently, that maybe Marcone was in the wrong line of business; the people he was loyal to didn’t _deserve_ the depth of his loyalty. But Marcone shut me down, every time, green eyes getting colder every night we met. We’d never _really_ discussed his day job, even though we talked about everything else under the sun; Chicago, magic, baseball, movies, but I got the occasional hint. Anecdotes mangled to protect the identities of the guilty. So I wasn’t immediately welcoming to the linebacker.

His next words didn’t fill me full of trust: “Your friend isn’t coming tonight. Might not come for a while. Said you should keep your head down.”

I didn’t, standing up. “What? Is Marcone in trouble?” More pertinently, what _kind_ of trouble? The police kind, or angry armed rival gangsters kind?

“He’ll be in touch.” Red turned to go, and I followed.

“Tell me where he is.”

Red stopped, looked at me, and I resisted the urge to step back. I’d faced off with a troll before; I could take the ginger hulk if I had to. “No.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No.”

“You’re lying,” I snarled, because I could practically see the deception as it tumbled out of his mouth, awkward, unconvinced.

“Not physically,” Red amended, and glanced around the bar like he was sharing state secrets.

“He’s lying low?” I pressed. “He’ll be ok?”

The man hesitated. “He’s... maybe. There’s something he has to do.”

Yeah. ‘Something’ was a bit of an understatement, but I didn’t get the how or the what or the why until later. Because I’m an _idiot_.

 

Once Marcone reappeared, Friday beer night got a lot more erratic. It wasn’t always Friday, or at night time, and it didn’t always involve beer. Marcone didn’t explain the vanishing act either.

“What’s with all the cloak and dagger stuff?” I asked. “You can’t just call me and say you want to hang out anymore?” Marcone’s smile was a lot tighter than it used to be. His amusement didn’t spill out across his face any more, wild and lazy; he reigned it in, like he’d started to do everything else. It worried me, a little.

“No, I can’t,” Marcone said.

“More business stuff?” I frowned.

“More business,” he hesitated. “Harry... it’s... you’ve noticed that things have got more turbulent lately?”

Yeah. I had. Hard men on the streets, shootings and beatings and disappearances. I nodded.

“Well, it’s going to get better,” Marcone said, turning to look me in the eyes. He hadn’t done that in a while, and I had to duck his gaze. “From now. From today. There’s going to be order.” Marcone sounded like if he said it with enough conviction, it’d happen. But that was how magic worked, not organised crime.

“Yeah?” I said. “Someone set to come out on top of the clusterfuck?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Someone is.”

“Good. Well, not good. There shouldn’t be _anyone_ in charge, Marcone. You know that really.” We’d had this conversation before, but he still turned away from me like I’d given him the wrong answer.

“Unfortunately, Harry, life doesn’t work that way.”

“Not if you don’t want it to, it doesn’t. So why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I’m going to be busy. I don’t want you to worry if you don’t hear from me often. Or if you... hear _about_ me. I don’t forget my friends.” Marcone turned back towards me. “And if you run into trouble, I want you to let me know. Don’t be macho about it.”

I laughed. “Our ‘trouble’ doesn’t cross paths much, Marcone, relax.”

“No. But I haven’t been discrete about being seen with you, Harry. I never thought I’d have to be. So promise me, if you need me, you’ll call.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sure. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Right,” Marcone said, and held out his hand, all weird and businesslike. I met his grip, and then because he looked so damn strained, I pulled him in for a hug, taking advantage of my superior height and freakishly long arms. His outraged protests got muffled by my shoulder, and when I finally let him go, there was a bit of the old green light in his eyes, laughing up at me once more. “Dresden, you dick. Man up.”

“Oh, like you wanted to stop at a hug,” I grinned at him, because Marcone never tried to be subtle about looking at me. To my surprise, he shut down immediately, nodding his head in an almost formal manner. “Look after yourself, Harry.”

He walked away.

 

I didn’t hear from Marcone for about a month. By the time that had started to worry me, other things were worrying me a lot more. Like the fact I was crouching behind a dumpster in an alleyway, with bullets flying past over my head.

“Who the hell are you people?” I yelled. “And what’s your problem?” Times like this I wished I could hop into the Never never without worrying about my Godmother claiming her pound of flesh.

There was a pause in the shooting. I wasn’t stupid enough to peer around my makeshift shield.

One of the gunmen answered me: “People who don’t appreciate what Gentleman Johnny is trying to do with this city. Come out here, and we’ll take you alive.”

“Take me _where_ alive? Why?” I asked, shaking out my shield bracelet and drawing my blasting rod.

“Somewhere nice and safe, while we send a message to your boyfriend.”

I blinked. “Right. My boyfriend the gentleman? A) I don’t know any gentlemen. B) If I did, none of them would be my boyfriend. I like women!”

That caused a bit of confused mobster mumbling, and I Listened as hard as I could, trying to get the hang of what the hell was going on here.

 _We got the wrong guy?_

 _How many seven feet tall jewellery wearing men that answer to ‘wizard’ have you met in Chicago?_

 _Maybe it’s just rumors, about the Gentleman._

Listening wasn’t helping. I stood up, levelled my rod, and carefully _foraze_ ’d my way out of there.

Once I got home I remembered the promise I’d made Marcone a while back. I’d called him a few times just to catch up and hit his voicemail, but one more try wouldn’t hurt. I ended up leaving him a message again. “Hey, it’s me. So, I got shot at today. A lot. Some guys think I know a Gentleman Johnny. Any idea who that is? And if it’s going to keep happening?”

There was a knock on my door twenty minutes later. I opened it cautiously, and there was Marcone, ginger guerrilla in tow. “When did you start to wear _suits_?” I asked in puzzlement. Even the guerrilla was wearing one. He looked ridiculous, but it sort of... worked for Marcone.

“It’s a recent development,” Marcone said, stepping into my home. “The men that shot at you, describe them.”

“Hi Harry, nice to see you Harry, sorry I never returned your calls Harry.”

Marcone rolled his eyes at me. “You aren’t my girlfriend, Dresden. You can cope without my attentions for a few weeks.”

Attentions? I frowned. It wasn’t just his dress sense that had shifted rapidly, his accent was weird as well. Like someone had ripped Chicago straight out of it.

“Ok,” I said slowly, “what the fuck is going on? Do you know this ‘Gentleman Johnny’ guy? Why do people think I’m dating him?”

Marcone winced. “That’s... unfortunate. He’s a man on the brink of gathering a lot of power. Concerned parties are scenting for weaknesses as we speak.” He hesitated. “I should go. I’ll look into things for you.”

“That’s it? At least stay for a Coke. I’m willing to put out and give you another hug.” There it was again, a quick flash of amusement in his eyes.

“I think you’re the one enjoying these hugs, Dresden. Seriously, go out and get laid sometime.”

“Well, I would, but apparently I’m running the risk of getting _shot at_. Most girls don’t go for bullet holes.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Marcone said, eyes cold and serious once more. “They won’t be bothering you in future.”

“Whoah,” I said. “Stop right there. No. I take care of my own business, Marcone.”

“And I mine,” and then he left. Maybe he was practicing his disconcerting exits.

 

So, when I finally put it all together, I felt like a bit of an idiot. I stared down at the paper in my hands, at the headline, and the picture on the society page. ‘Gentleman Johnny at Charity Gala’, it said, right above a picture of Marcone in a tux.

Gentleman Johnny. John Marcone. The man who took over the city.

I nearly broke land speed records sprinting to a payphone.

Wonder of wonders, he actually picked up. I didn’t let him get very far past _hello_. “You aren’t even a gentleman!” I yelled, picturing the green eyed tearaway I’d first met in a rough part of town.

“Harry. I didn’t think you read the society pages.”

“What the hell, Marcone? Did you wake up one morning and think oh, I’d like to rule Chicago today? Who does that? What’s _wrong_ with you?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Don’t you dare brush me off. I had people shooting at me because you decided you had to be top dog, you bastard. You didn’t feel like warning me?”

“I wanted to. My sentimentality in regards to you is debilitating at times.”

“Stop talking like that!” I yelled. I took a breath. “Right. I think we need to go for a beer.”

“If you like. Seven? At the Varsity?”

It was a new place, I’d heard of it. “Yeah.”

 

When I reached the Varsity, it was closed. But there were a couple of burly guards on the door who waved me through. The place was empty, except for John, standing in the middle of the dance floor in a smart woolen coat. Reality hit me in the stomach.

This place was Marcone’s, secured by his men on his orders. “You’re the don of Chicago,” I blurted.

He shrugged. “I’m not keen on ‘don’, Harry. I’m trying to modernise things.”

“Right. And how’s that going for you?”

“There’s been some resistance. But it’s largely settled now.”

Yeah. Marcone had won the city. “To the victor the spoils,” I murmured, wondering how the hell we’d reached this point. How this could be the man I’d shared beer and easy company with. “Why? I don’t get it. I never had you pegged as a megalomaniac.”

“It’s not power for power’s sake, Harry. There’s a reason. A good one.”

“But you aren’t going to tell me?”

“No.”

“Look me in the eyes and say that,” I said. Marcone tried, but I was soul to soul with him before he could finish opening his mouth.

The sensation of startling a predator didn’t frighten me; I was expecting something like that in Marcone’s soul, after seeing him fight, walking with him through the streets of Chicago. What scared me was the sterility, the color and the light getting sucked out of his soul, leeching into some tucked away, closed off part of him. I reached toward it, and nearly got kicked out of Marcone’s head for my presumption, the cold draining sensation catching hold of me too.

“Easy, Marcone.” I murmured, and then broke away.

He reeled backward, eyes wide and green with wonder. “What-- that was you, wasn’t it? I saw _you_.”

“My soul. Yes. It’s a one time deal.”

Marcone made for a seat, slumping into it. “Every time I think you’re done surprising me, Dresden.” He shook his head.

“What was it?” I asked, meaning the darkness, the regret, the hidden thing. I didn’t need to explain.

“There was a kid. She took a bullet for me. After I started making Marco Vargassi nervous.”

Oh fuck. There was utter devastation in his eyes, and poorly masked rage. A normal person might have turned to drinking or fighting, something quick and self destructive.

Marcone... Marcone had never been normal. Marcone tried to _fix things_ when anyone sane knew they couldn’t be fixed.

“You lunatic,” I said, joining him at the table. “I mean it. You’re completely batshit crazy. What the hell are you going to with with an _entire city_?”

“Keep it,” Marcone said in a strained voice, like he was trying not to laugh. “Defend it from itself, and all comers.”

I ran my hands through my hair, trying to figure out what I was going to do about this, whether I needed to do anything at all. But I couldn’t walk out of there, couldn’t leave Marcone with all the life and color bleaching out of his world.

“Beer,” I said calmly. He raised an eyebrow. “Beer will make this better. You owe me a beer for every Friday you missed after deciding to go Machiavelli on Chicago’s ass.”

“That’s... a lot of beer, Harry.”

I knew that. It was going to take a lot of beer for me to work out if I could stay friends with the mobster running the city. If I couldn’t... if I couldn’t, we might all be in trouble. I took a deep breath, and got ready to know Gentleman Johnny.


End file.
